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A TALE OF TWO CITIES
“Never mind about ‘happening,’ Mr. Lorry. He was the only
passenger who came on board in the dead of the night?”
“He was.”
“Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any companion?”
“With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are
here.”
“They are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner?”
“Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long
and rough, and I lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore.”
“Miss Manette!”
The young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before,
and were now turned again, stood up where she had sat. Her
father rose with her, and kept her hand drawn through his
arm.
“Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.”
To be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth
and beauty, was far more trying to the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd. Standing, as it were, apart with
her on the edge of his grave, not all the staring curiosity that
looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him to remain quite
still. His hurried right hand parcelled out the herbs before
him into imaginary beds of fl owers in a garden; and his efforts
to control and steady his breathing shook the lips from which
the colour rushed to his heart. The buzz of the great fl ies was
loud again.
“Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where?”
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CHARLES DICKENS
“On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and
on the same occasion.”
“You are the young lady just now referred to?”
“O! most unhappily, I am!”
The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the
less musical voice of the Judge, as he said something fi ercely:
“Answer the questions put to you, and make no remark upon
them.”
“Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner
on that passage across the Channel?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Recall it.”
In the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began:
“When the gentleman came on board – ”
“Do you mean the prisoner?” inquired the Judge, knitting
his brows.
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Then say the prisoner.”
“When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my father,” turning her eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside her,
“was much fatigued and in a very weak state of health. My father was so reduced that I was afraid to take him out of the air,
and I had made a bed for him on the deck near the cabin steps,
and I sat on the deck at his side to take care of him. There were
no other passengers that night, but we four. The prisoner was
so good as to beg permission to advise me how I could shelter
my father from the wind and weather, better than I had done.
I had not known how to do it well, not understanding how
the wind would set when we were out of the harbour. He did
it for me. He expressed great gentleness and kindness for my
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father’s state, and I am sure he felt it. That was the manner of
our beginning to speak together.”
“Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on board
alone?”
“No.”
“How many were with him?”
“Two French gentlemen.”
“Had they conferred together?”
“They had conferred together until the last moment, when
it was necessary for the French gentlemen to be landed in
their boat.”
“Had any papers been handed about among them, similar
to these lists?”
“Some papers had been handed about among them, but I
don’t know what papers.”
“Like these in shape and size?”
“Possibly, but indeed I don’t know, although they stood
whispering very near to me: because they stood at the top of
the cabin steps to have the light of the lamp that was hanging
there; it was a dull lamp, and they spoke very low, and I did not
hear what they said, and saw only that they looked at papers.”
“Now, to the prisoner’s conversation, Miss Manette.”
“The prisoner was as open in his confi dence with me –
which arose out of my helpless situation – as he was kind, and
good, and useful to my father. I hope,” bursting into tears, “I
may not repay him by doing him harm to-day.”
Buzzing from the blue-fl ies.
“Miss Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly understand that you give the evidence which it is your duty to give –
which you must give – and which you cannot escape from giv-
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CHARLES DICKENS
ing – with great unwillingness, he is the only person present
in that condition. Please to go on.”
“He told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate
and diffi cult nature, which might get people into trouble, and
that he was therefore travelling under an assumed name. He
said that this business had, within a few days, taken him to
France, and might, at intervals, take him backwards and forwards between France and England for a long time to come.”
“Did he say anything about America, Miss Manette? Be
particular.”
“He tried to explain to me how that quarrel had arisen, and
he said that, so far as he could judge, it was a wrong and foolish
one on England’s part. He added, in a jesting way, that perhaps
George Washington might gain almost as great a name in history as George the Third. But there was no harm in his way of
saying this: it was said laughingly, and to beguile the time.”
Any strongly marked expression of face on the part of a
chief actor in a scene of great interest to whom many eyes are
directed, will be unconsciously imitated by the spectators. Her
forehead was painfully anxious and intent as she gave this
evidence, and, in the pauses when she stopped for the Judge
to write it down, watched its effect upon the counsel for and
against. Among the lookers-on there was the same expression
in all quarters of the court; insomuch, that a great majority of
the foreheads there, might have been mirrors refl ecting the
witness, when the Judge looked up from his notes to glare at
that tremendous heresy about George Washington.
Mr. Attorney-General now signifi ed to my Lord, that he
deemed it necessary, as a matter of precaution and form, to
call the young lady’s father, Doctor Manette. Who was called
accordingly.
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A TALE OF TWO CITIES
“Doctor Manette, look upon the prisoner. Have you ever
seen him before?”
“Once. When he called at my lodgings in London. Some
three years, or three years and a half ago.”
“Can you identify him as your fellow-passenger on board
the packet, or speak to his conversation with your daughter?”
“Sir, I can do neither.”
“Is there any particular and special reason for your being
unable to do either?”
He answered, in a low voice, “There is.”
“Has it been your misfortune to undergo a long imprisonment, without trial, or even accusation, in your native country,
Doctor Manette?”
He answered, in a tone that went to every heart, “A long
imprisonment.”
“Were you newly released on the occasion in question?”
“They tell me so.”
“Have you no remembrance of the occasion?”
“None. My mind is a blank, from some time – I cannot
even say what time – when I employed myself, in my captivity, in making shoes, to the time when I found myself living in
London with my dear daughter here. She had become familiar
to me, when a gracious God restored my faculties; but, I am
quite unable even to say how she had become familiar. I have
no remembrance of the process.”
Mr. Attorney-General sat down, and the father and daughter sat down together.
A singular circumstance then arose in the case. The object
in hand being to show that the prisoner went down, with some
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CHARLES DICKENS
fellow-plotter untracked, in the Dover mail on that Friday
night in November fi ve years ago, and got out of the mail in
the night, as a blind, at a place where he did not remain, but
from which he travelled back some dozen miles or more, to a
garrison and dockyard, and there collected information; a witness was called to identify him as having been at the precise
time required, in the coffee-room of an hotel in that garrisonand-dockyard town, waiting for another person. The prisoner’s counsel was cross-examining this witness with no result,
except that he had never seen the prisoner on any other occasion, when the wigged gentleman who had all this time been
looking at the ceiling of the court, wrote a word or two on a
little piece of paper, screwed it up, and tossed it to him. Opening this piece of paper in the next pause, the counsel looked
with great attention and curiosity at the prisoner.
“You say again you are quite sure that it was the prisoner?”
The witness was quite sure.
“Did you ever see anybody very like the prisoner?”
Not so like (the witness said) as that he could be mis taken.
“Look well upon that gentleman, my learned friend there,”
pointing to him who had tossed the paper over, “and then look
well upon the prisoner. How say you? Are they very like each
other?”
Allowing for my learned friend’s appearance being careless
and slovenly if not debauched, they were suffi ciently like each
other to surprise, not only the witness, but everybody present,
when they were thus brought into comparison. My Lord being
prayed to bid my learned friend lay aside his wig, and giving no
very gracious consent, the likeness became much more remarkable. My Lord inquired of Mr. Stryver (the prisoner’s counsel),
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A TALE OF TWO CITIES
whether they were next to try Mr. Carton (name of my learned
friend) for treason? But, Mr. Stryver replied to my Lord, no; but
he would ask the witness to tell him whether what happened
once, might happen twice; whether he would have been so confi dent if he had seen this illustration of his rashness sooner,
whether he would be so confi dent, having seen it; and more.
The upshot of which, was, to smash this witness like a crockery
vessel, and shiver his part of the case to useless lumber.
Mr. Cruncher had by this time taken quite a lunch of rust
off his fi ngers in his following of the evidence. He had now to
attend while Mr. Stryver fi tted the prisoner’s case on the jury,
like a compact suit of clothes; showing them how the patriot,
Barsad, was a hired spy and traitor, an unblushing traffi cker in
blood, and one of the greatest scoundrels upon earth since accursed Judas – which he certainly did look rather like. How
the virtuous servant, Cly, was his friend and partner, and was
worthy to be; how the watchful eyes of those forgers and false
swearers had rested on the prisoner as a victim, because some
family affairs in France, he being of French extraction, did require his making those passages across the Channel – though
what those affairs were, a consideration for others who were
near and dear to him, forbade him, even for his life, to disclose.
How the evidence that had been warped and wrested from the
young lady, whose anguish in giving it they had witnessed, came
to nothing, involving the mere little innocent gallantries and
politenesses likely to pass between any young gentleman and
young lady so thrown together; – with the exception of that
reference to George Washington, which was altogether too extravagant and impossible to be regarded in any other light than
as a monstrous joke. How it would be a weakness in the government to break down in this attempt to practise for popularity
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CHARLES DICKENS
on the lowest national antipathies and fears, and therefore Mr.
Attorney-General had made the most of it; how, nevertheless,
it rested upon nothing, save that vile and infamous character
of evidence too often disfi guring such cases, and of which the
State Trials of this country were full. But, there my Lord interposed (with as grave a face as if it had not been true), saying that
he could not sit upon that Bench and suffer those allusions.
Mr. Stryver then called his few witnesses, and Mr. Cruncher
had next to attend while Mr. Attorney-General turned the whole
suit of clothes Mr. Stryver had fi tted on the jury, inside out; showing how Barsad and Cly were even a hundred times better than
he had thought them, and the prisoner a hundred times worse.
Lastly, came my Lord himself, turning the suit of clothes, now
inside out, now outside in, but on the whole decidedly trimming
and shaping them into grave-clothes for the prisoner.
And now, the jury turned to consider, and the great fl ies
swarmed again.
Mr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling of the
court, changed neither his place nor his attitude, even in this excitement. While his learned friend, Mr. Stryver, massing his papers before him, whispered with those who sat near, and from
time to time glanced anxiously at the jury; while all the spectators
moved more or less, and grouped themselves anew; while even
my Lord himself arose from his seat, and slowly paced up and
down his platform, not unattended by a suspicion in the minds
of the audience that his state was feverish; this one man sat leaning back, with his torn gown half off him, his untidy wig put on
just as it had happened to light on his head after its removal, his
hands in his pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling as they had been
all day. Something especially reckless in his demeanour, not only
gave him a disreputable look, but so diminished the strong re-
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semblance he undoubtedly bore to the prisoner (which his momentary earnestness, when they were compared together, had
strengthened), that many of the lookers-on, taking note of him
now, said to one another they would hardly have thought the
two were so alike. Mr. Cruncher made the observation to his next
neighbour, and added, “I’d hold half a guinea that he don’t get no
law-work to do. Don’t look like the sort of one to get any, do he?”
Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene
than he appeared to take in; for now, when Miss Manette’s
head dropped upon her father’s breast, he was the fi rst to see
it, and to say audibly: “Offi cer! look to that young lady. Help
the gentleman to take her out. Don’t you see she will fall!”
There was much commiseration for her as she was removed,
and much sympathy with her father. It had evidently been a
great distress to him, to have the days of his imprisonment recalled. He had shown strong internal agitation when he was
questioned, and that pondering or brooding look which made
him old, had been upon him, like a heavy cloud, ever since. As
he passed out, the jury, who had turned back and paused a moment, spoke, through their foreman.
They were not agreed, and wished to retire. My Lord (perhaps
with George Washington on his mind) showed some surprise
that they were not agreed, but signifi ed his pleasure that they
should retire under watch and ward, and retired himself. The
trial had lasted all day, and the lamps in the court were now being lighted. It began to be rumoured that the jury would be out
a long while. The spectators dropped off to get refreshment, and
the prisoner withdrew to the back of the dock, and sat down.
Mr. Lorry, who had gone out when the young lady and her
father went out, now reappeared, and beckoned to Jerry: who,
in the slackened interest, could easily get near him.
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CHARLES DICKENS
“Jerry, if you wish to take something to eat, you can. But,
keep in the way. You will be sure to hear when the jury come
in. Don’t be a moment behind them, for I want you to take
the verdict back to the bank. You are the quickest messenger I
know, and will get to Temple Bar long before I can.”
Jerry had just enough forehead to knuckle, and he knuckled it in acknowledgment of this communication and a shilling. Mr. Carton came up at the moment, and touched Mr.
Lorry on the arm.
“How is the young lady?”
“She is greatly distressed; but her father is comforting her,
and she feels the better for being out of court.”
“I’ll tell the prisoner so. It won’t do for a respectable bank
gentleman like you, to be seen speaking to him publicly, you
know.”
Mr. Lorry reddened as if he were conscious of having debated the point in his mind, and Mr. Carton made his way to
the outside of the bar. The way out of court lay in that direction, and Jerry followed him, all eyes, ears, and spikes.
“Mr. Darnay!”
The prisoner came forward directly.
“You will naturally be anxious to hear of the witness, Miss
Manette. She will do very well. You have seen the worst of her
agitation.”
“I am deeply sorry to have been the cause of it. Could you
tell her so for me, with my fervent acknowledgments?”
“Yes, I could. I will, if you ask it.”
Mr. Carton’s manner was so careless as to be almost insolent. He stood, half turned from the prisoner, lounging with
his elbow against the bar.
“I do ask it. Accept my cordial thanks.”
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